


venture ambassadors

by Poose



Series: bear mode [3]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Class Differences, Established Relationship, For Me Personally, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Solomon Tozer Can Have a Little Sulk, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:34:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25140970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/Poose
Summary: Solomon Tozer goes on holiday to Greece in order to learn that the Edward Little Boyfriend Experience(TM)is good, actually.
Relationships: Lt Edward Little/Sgt Solomon Tozer
Series: bear mode [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1821178
Comments: 22
Kudos: 33





	venture ambassadors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whalersandsailors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalersandsailors/gifts).



Edward’s buying them cigarettes. Two whole packs, because _it’s a steep walk down and a horrible climb back up_. He takes the thin, white plastic bag from the tiny hunched-over woman running the shop. First thing he does, after they've unlocked the front door, put down their bags, kicked off their shoes, is head out back where there’s an ashtray and light up. 

Sol uses the toilet, washes his hands, looks around for the wifi password. 

_It’s on the kitchen counter_ Edward says to his question, ducking his head through but holding his cigarette away from the door. Sol looks behind him, cast into shadow by the sun overhead, and does a genuine double take. Not on account of the view, though it is pretty damn nice. 

_Is that a hot tub?_ he asks. 

Edward looks over his shoulder. 

_Soaking pool_ Edward says with a shrug, steps away as Sol comes outside, his head wreathed in smoke. _Trust me, you'll be glad we have it._

He winces at the brightness, stark sun-bleached white and clear, clear blue. The heat hits him like a furnace, bouncing off the walls. The smell of tobacco is a siren song which he, to his credit, resists. 

Edward pulls out his phone, squints at the screen. _I made a list of stuff we can do._ Then he reads off activities, places, things on the list. 

_Thought you’d want the beach_. Sol folds his arms and leans against the white wall, recoiling at once when the heat seeps through his shirt and into his shoulder blades, instantly hot like a bee sting. 

He wrinkles his nose, shakes his head _no._ _We got the pool_ he says, like that answers it. The pool, upon closer inspection, is downright tiny, hardly any bigger than the bathtub in Edward’s flat, but, as Edward points out they haven’t got to share it with anyone. It's for them alone. 

Now there’s water down the hill, warm as you like, and hotels with pools, cheaper prices because Edward says _they’re louder, right in the commercial areas and they haven’t got the view_ and now they’re here he feels he should not be worrying that there’s loads of water, free for the taking, the swimming, a thousand feet below them. 

_It’s crowded at the weekend_ Edward explains. _And then it gets trashed. Besides. I like it up here. Where it’s quiet._

Edward’s eyes flick up to the sunglasses Sol has forgotten are on his head. 

They go out for dinner and he shares one cigarette, a cheeky one, with Edward as they watch the sun set, and it must be the wine, the sun because that night he sleeps like the dead. 

ϴ ϴ ϴ

Edward wipes his face with his hand. He’s been sitting in the little pool all morning, apart from going inside to fix them coffee, then drinks, and, presumably, to use the toilet. 

Sol is in a chair, wearing a hat and factor 50, his arms and torso covered by a rash guard that Maggie had gifted him. A nice gesture, kind of a cheat. She’d seemed taken aback at his thank you text. He suspects Edward is behind it. 

They venture out after lunch. The sun is huge, pale and blistering overhead. _It’ll be quieter_ Edward promises, but not by much, as it turns out. The church is crowded, tiny. It’s cool inside, though, there and in the adjoining shops. Edward suggests they save the naval museum for tomorrow, go sit and have a drink then maybe double back and watch the sunset from the ruins. Sol is grateful to be off his feet, though it chafes a bugger when he gets himself into his chair. Jeans were a bad idea, too hot, heavy and damp against his skin. 

A grey-haired woman takes their order, and a black-haired one with her ample tits hiked way _way_ up — her daughter, maybe — brings their wine, opens, pours it, and leaves them the bottle in a bucket frosty with ice. 

They don’t give you tap water here, you have to buy a tiny square plastic bottle, tepid as the water in the sunken caldera; according to Edward’s guidebook, which he’d read on the plane from London, his seat bolt upright next to Edward’s reclined one, Edward asleep with his head lolling dangerously in the direction of Sol’s shoulder. The drink barely coats his dry throat as he empties the bottle. 

The younger woman with the black hair and the form-fitting black dress and the insane eyeliner and all the bling is suddenly right there. _I’m fine_ he tells her as she flourishes another little bottle that he didn’t ask for and is going to cost two, three quid, easy. 

_Let’s get a big bottle_ Edward says, when she tries to foist it off on them, indicates the size with his hands. _Bigger?_

She comes back with that and a little dish of olives which she arranges in front of them with great fuss and ceremony. 

_You want a picture_ she says, her eyes narrowing. She points back and forth at them with her whole arm, which jingles as she moves. _With_ she arches an eyebrow at Sol _your friend_. 

_Do you?_ Edward asks from across the table. 

He shrugs like it’s no big deal. _It’s fine_ he says. Which — it is. 

Edward leans in just as he sits back, hands on his thighs, arms extended straight, shoulders tensed. 

_No no no_ she gesticulates. _What is this? Sit closer. Be happy, yes?_

A man, older, maybe her father, comes to see what the fuss is about. He looks over her shoulder at the screen, says something in rapid-fire Greek and smiles down at them benevolently. He has thick glasses on, thick-soled shoes to make him seem taller than he is. Then he takes the phone away and counts to three several times until Sol’s teeth hurt from pretending to smile in a way that will look natural in a photo. 

Edward looks at the pictures, chuckles, nods, and then the man swivels the phone so Sol can see, which makes his pulse speed up as it does any time someone gets near Edward’s photo app, but he stops a few pictures in to their lodging, says _oh sorry sorry_ and hands it back to Edward. Sol exhales in relief. 

_I’m gonna send this one to my parents_ he says, thumbs moving over the screen. _Want me to add anyone else?_

Sol blurts out _no I’m good_ way way too quickly. 

Edward picks up the laminated menu, flips it back to front like there's something interesting there. _Suit yourself_ he says and then chuckles to himself a few seconds later when someone, his mother probably, texts back. 

_Sorry_ he offers. _Guess I’m just hungry._

 _I can probably get us more olives?_ He looks around for their waitress. _Food takes forever but it’ll be worth it._

After they’ve eaten he does in fact feel a lot better. Edward orders them a local liqueur which tastes worse than Sambuca, but after about ten minutes and, all right, an after-dinner cigarette, one all to himself, he’s beginning to see how you could vibe with the stuff. 

Edward gets them another round of drinks which he doesn’t finish and Sol does instead, and he’s really _really_ ready to leave but the little old lady insists on bringing them coffees they haven’t ordered, tiny thick cups of it sweet enough to stand a spoon up in, and Sol is buzzed with it, lightheaded as they leave piles of foreign money on the table, and walk their way back up the hill. 

Edward goes first, Sol huffing his way up the stairs, winded from too much wine, too much sun. 

_Kiss me_ he says when they’re about a third of the way there. 

_What_ Sol pants, looks around at their surroundings, _what here?_

 _Yes_ he says. The fluorescent light from an open shop door catches his dark hair, reddens it. _Absolutely yes here_. And then to his surprise Edward reaches out to him, hooks a finger in the belt loop of his jeans — and tugs. 

He needs a moment to process what the fuck is happening, Edward’s hand cool against his face, his private half-smile as he leans over in a way that has happened hundreds of times in his own flat, in Sol’s bedroom, precisely once after they’d gone to the cinema and everyone else had left. Until now those kisses had only ever taken place under roofs, behind doors. Not under the huge, open sky with people milling about, sun-drunk tourists who will regret their early ferries and flights come morning, grandmothers sweeping stoops next to barefoot children playing with plastic cars and bits of string. 

_Should I take you home?_ he says, lifting up Edward’s hand, kissing his palm, looking over at him. 

_I think_ Edward reels a little and Sol grins, wide and predatory. _I think that would be good._

The air grows chilly as they climb the rest of the way. Edward wants to kiss him any time there’s an opportunity. Like he’s not tired of Sol yet. 

_I want to fuck you_ Edward slurs against his mouth before they’ve even made it inside the front door. Sol has no idea how he’s managed to locate their place because it’s proper dark: no neon, no streetlights. 

_Grand_ Sol says, once his brain has rebooted. _Meet you upstairs?_

 _Outside?_ Edward says, instead, and then his brain really does short out. 

He changes into his trunks because it feels silly to walk across the veranda with his bob and tackle out. Edward’s clothes are piled up on a nearby chair, including his underwear. He has not bothered with the pretense of a swimsuit. He’s sat up on the edge, feet in the water, fucking smoking. 

_Again?_ Sol asks. 

_‘M on holiday_ Edward slurs, holds the fag out to him. _We_ — he gestures between them with the lit cigarette, hiccoughs — _are on holiday_. 

A quiet splash accompanies Sol as he slides into the salt water. It stings against his chafed thighs and he quick-walks himself back out almost immediately and hoists himself up over the side. Edward tosses his cigarette aside and Sol watches it, smoldering on the ground, as Edward pulls his trunks down, spreads him open with his hands. There’s a little hiss, an intake of breath, which means it must look awful, maybe worse than it feels, and it doesn’t feel too bloody good. 

_Oh my god_ Edward asks, fingers skirting lightly over him _are you okay?_

He grunts out an affirmative. 

_Should we not?_ Edward asks, even as he’s got his teeth fitted to the curve of Sol's backside, pressing kisses into his tailbone. _I'm cool with whatever._

Sol says _Can you go slow?_ Because he wants this, so badly. The way Edward wants him. As if he matters. Like he’s worth doing this for. 

_Sure_ Edward floats up behind, against him _sure I can do that._

Sol straightens his arms against the side, pushes up and back into the pain.

Edward's face is scratchy but his lips, his tongue, are soft. True to his word Edward licks him out until his triceps shake. The water laps against his thighs as he moves, stinging with every swell, a marked contrast to how gentle Edward's being. A warm lick that makes his stomach clench followed by a wave of pain, and this, a patient alternating rhythm that lulls him into forgetfulness. Sol balls up his fists, says _stop stop you’re gonna make me come._

Edward chuckles against him and says _well we certainly wouldn’t want that to happen_ and the vibrations from his deep voice are nearly enough to send him off. 

_Fuck you_ Sol says, as he flops his way up onto the side of the pool, braces himself on his forearms to look behind him, his hands tight in a fist against the rough stucco, bringing up little pricks of red that stand out on his skin. 

_‘Kay_ Edward says and ducks his head under until the water reaches almost to his eyes. A few bubbles come up to the surface as he sucks some into his mouth to swish it around. He stands up, sending more water sloshing over the side, as he leans over to spit it out. The cigarette has burnt itself out, the pool water soaking what remains. _Can I? Now?_

_Christ_ Sol manages to answer _. What is this?_

 _I told you_ Edward says. _Holiday_. _Why?_ he looks up, smiles with one side of his mouth. He could, he thinks, cry at the sight. _Don’t you like it?_

Sol manages to choke out a noise that he hopes means _Yes a lot go on then_ and turns back around to offer himself up. 

Edward gets a slick hand on himself, the other spreading him open. _Fuck that’s hot_ he says _fuck you’re hot._

 _Get on with it_ he grouses, wiping a hand across his burning face. 

_So fucking hard for you_ Edward says, which is true, he is, and then _Want you so much._

 _Fuck, I can feel it._ It smarts, when Edward’s thighs slap against his backside. Not nice, exactly, but necessary. 

_You could take more than just me_ he bites Sol’s neck, keeps moving him back with his hands, pressing up against his aching legs, the water splashing loud against the quiet of their little veranda. There are noises drifting up from below: music, people conversing, foghorns, maybe, in the distance. _Like if you wanted. God._

 _Like what?_ Sol chokes out, because when Edward says anything the tiniest bit dirty it drives him up the fucking wall. Best to encourage it, even if he's hardly in the mood. 

Edward's mouth moves down the middle of his back, soft hair rubbing against his spine. _I’d’ve watched you fuck someone. If I’d seen you. At a club._

 _God, you too._ His dick jumps, yes, but all the same he’s pretty certain this is a lie. Can you be jealous of someone who isn’t real? Someone who’s already been had and forgotten? 

_Would’ve been hot_ Edward rasps up against his ear, all the way in, fucking Sol deep and purposeful. 

_Yeah_ he says in response _oh fuck yeah it would have._

Sol is fumbling underneath himself trying to get a hand in but managing to slip off into the water, his dick bobbing in it, heavy but buoyant, like being lapped at by a thousand warm, damp tongues. Edward is a tiny bit erratic in his pace, mumbling stuff, hot stuff that should be working, getting him closer to getting off, but either it’s the sun gone to his head, the late hour, the drink, the salt water kissing his abrasions, because he can’t quite make it work, can’t quite get there. 

Yes, it gets him going. He’s been, himself. Made the rounds, did his bit. He didn’t luxuriate in it like Edward on his gap year, getting felt up, loved on. Drifting from one party to another. Crashing in hostels, second homes, vacation places, city flats. He’d been too busy working, boozing, kicking a ball around. Not exactly starting fights but not, exactly, running away from them either. 

But the shit he thinks _what if I’d been there first_ and _why couldn’t it have been me instead_ is rubbish. To think about Edward before he'd even known Edward existed. Seeing him, as he’d been. He wouldn’t have known how to love him, back then. This dumb idea makes his heart twang an off-note and he closes his eyes against the blurry whiteness of the wall, the blue of the pool water reflected up beneath them, tries to focus only on the hot slide of Edward’s lovely hard dick, making himself open to it rather than resisting. 

He pushes himself up and back, spreads his thighs wider, his feet lifting off the bottom of the blue, blue pool. He is light in Edward's hands, crushed against the side, and it is good, exactly how he likes it, just this side of too rough and possessive.

Edward’s answer is to hasten his stroke, yank on his waist say _yeah that's good you're so good_. Maybe he can come like this, maybe he doesn’t even need to involve his dick in the proceedings at all. 

_I wanna make you come_ Edward says in a voice made scratchy from wine and cigarettes, dry sand, hot salt in the air _fuck yeah let me have it._

 _Only for you_ he says and immediately regrets saying it because it’s getting to be too close to real and none of this, none of it, is real. It’s holidays. Make-believe. 

Edward’s holding him up, cupping a damp hand against his bearded chin until he can kiss him, his breath hot and tasting of ash. 

_Edward_ he says though he hardly knows what he’s asking for. _Can you not can you just_ and he slows down his stroke, holds him tight around the torso, squeezing their wet bodies together, and says _that better?_

 _I think so_ Sol says trying his best to relax back into it, gasps when Edward pushes into him as deep as he can get _yeah I guess._

ϴ ϴ ϴ

You’d think that waking up in the luxury villa your incredibly hot boyfriend has brought you to on holiday, the morning after he bangs your brains out, would make a bloke lively but Sol’s hungover, cranky, his shit mood only heightened by the people in the neighbouring rental yelling at one another when a taxi honks outside. 

Sol is wide awake and none too happy about it. 

Edward’s voice is thick with sleep, his eyes closed, eyelashes dark against cheeks, pink and freckled from the ever-present sun. _They’ll be gone in a second_ he says as Sol fidgets, and burrows in more closely. _Don’t worry about it._

He manages to drift in and out for about an hour, but it’s choppy, agitated, and when he’s woken up from yet another weird, dizzying dream, rubs his eyes with his palm and sidles his way out of bed. Edward grumbles, reaches for the pillow. 

Sol reads the instructions for the coffee machine, slots the cup into place and hopes he hasn't broken it from the loud, whirring noise it makes. Does the trick, tastes of tar. There’s a jar of Nescafé but it’s long expired. Sol takes his coffee to one of the sofas and watches highlights on his phone until Edward wakes up. 

They have their day like usual; breakfast on the patio, in the shade — fruit, yoghurt, that awful thick coffee which Edward seems unfazed by, probably because he’s been drinking that stuff since before university, when Sol would actively murder someone for a proper builder’s with about six sugars — then go to the museum to stand around and peer at tiny typed-up cards to learn about maritime history and naval battles Sol’s never once heard of. 

Edward reads them facts from the guidebook and his feet hurt, his legs hurt from walking up and down all these fucking hills, and when it’s time to go have lunch he finds he doesn’t want to go sit on a veranda and drink wine like they’ve been doing, he doesn’t want to look at Edward in his collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up because he looks like he belongs here, with his dark hair and his effortless fucking tan, and he does belong here because if you’re a certain way, even if you’re like that, then you can belong anywhere. Manners, a degree, enough money to take holidays every year if you liked. Hell, more often. 

He knows he’s meant to be grateful, and he’s that, but fuck. Why’s he this bloody angry, then, if he’s grateful? 

Lunch is weird. He picks at his fish. He wants proper chips, to be alone, to be home. 

They stop in at the little shop for Edward to get his cigarettes and an English newspaper, several days out of date, curled up yellow from the heat. 

Edward smiles at him and Sol wants to run screaming to the taxi stand. 

He can leave if he wants, and right now that’s all he can think about. Wouldn’t that be better, easier for Edward? He can find himself a proper boyfriend as a matter of course, it would only take a second for any man to see that he’s a catch. This new boyfriend, this better boyfriend, Sol imagines, will know how you’re supposed to eat a whole grilled fish, without choking on a million tiny bones, leaving Sol to his life where the only fish comes out of a deep-fat fryer to be wrapped in day-old newspaper and sold to drunkards on a Friday. 

The mood won’t shake, either. 

Edward looks at him quizzically when he says he’s going for a run. _Just to clear his head_ though he doesn’t say that out loud. What’s that meant to even mean? 

_It’s two in the afternoon?_

He shrugs. _So what?_

 _Hottest part of the day?_ Edward offers. 

Sol shrugs a second time. 

_Wear a hat at least_ Edward says, and then in a flat tone _Have you got Euro on you?_

 _I’m going for a run_ Sol snaps _not buying a bloody rug._

 _Sorry_ Edward says, tightly, _forget it._ He takes his architecture magazine and glass of water to the bed upstairs, where he is going to strip down to his underwear and lie down to nap. Sol should be with him, sleeping through the brutal heat of the day and then being woken up with Edward going at him underneath the covers. 

But it would be obvious now if he said _sorry, I don’t know what’s up, I’m sorry I’m the way I am._ He’s already told Edward he’s leaving and, well, Edward’s already upset, which means it won’t fix anything to stay. Might as well go as planned. 

He can’t run without music. Edward is indiscriminate. Classical is as good for him as EDM, and he can, unbelievably, work out to a podcast. On the winding road that wraps round the cliffside away from their rental — Sol cannot bring himself to call it a _luxury terraced villa_ like the brochure on the kitchen table says — he puts in earbuds, takes them out mere seconds later when a narrow white lorry, the unholy offspring of a golf cart and a refrigerator box, nearly runs him off the side. The swerving cars come next, then the motorbikes, which haven’t got a reason to ride his ass, but do all the same. 

_Fuck this for a lark_ he says to himself, and turns off the road at the nearest signpost which leads to some stairs that will get him back to their rental. 

Or not, as the case may be. Sol glowers at his phone, turned up to full blast against the whiteness of the buildings and the walls, the sun managing to be bigger, somehow, than he’s ever seen it, and the little dot on the map keeps jumping around, confused as it is by the buildings, the walls, possibly even the sun. 

He finds shade, spends money on an overpriced square, plastic bottle of water. He leans against a square planter, whitewashed stucco warm against his thighs to drink it. Sol sits down eventually, lets that warmth seep into his backside, which is tender against the swim trunks he’s wearing in place of jeans or shorts. 

The phone, next to him on the planter, has overheated. He can’t get even that useless dot to come back. He could ask for directions. He could find some shade and let his phone come back to life. He could message Edward and say he’s an idiot. Say _come get me_ say _I love you more than you could ever_ know say _it’s not your fault I don’t know how to take things from people_ say _I’m sorry please don’t give up on me just yet._

He wipes his sweaty forehead with his forearm and walks down the steps, past the castle, past the places where they’ve eaten and explored, past places where they both took photos, and down further, down the steps built into the cliffside, and all the way to the jetty. 

His heart is racing more than if he’d gone for a run. The horizon wavers, watery. He wipes the sweat from his stinging eyes. 

Why is it so bloody hot? Who thought it was a good idea to live here, settle on this barren outcropping of rock, on the rim of a fucking volcano? _Extinct_ the guidebook had said, but what did they know, really? 

It’s taken Sol a long time to be who he is. Mostly he’s okay with it. In certain places he is confident: at work, having sex, kicking a football, at home for Christmas. These are anchors; they fix him in place. 

Edward, though. He moves through the world like he’s of it, belongs to it, and Edward can float, drift through the world by virtue of who he knows, where he went to university, knowing how to converse pleasantly with the couple across the aisle on their second tiny flight, who were coming for their honeymoon and staying for three weeks, traveling around, and Edward had suggestions, Edward scrawled notes in the back of their guidebook, and Sol, who had absolutely zero to contribute, pretended to sleep instead. 

The phone comes back on, at last, though with hardly any battery left. He should text. It's been a while. 

Edward finds him on what passes for a beach, really just an outcropping of gray rock covered in very tan people taking selfies and then making their way back to the bars and restaurants that dot the craggy coastline. He gets as far away from them as he can, knees bent, one hand clasped around his wrist, his head leant against his forearm. What reason has he to feel this shit? 

_Here_ he says, as he sits down next to Sol on the rock. He passes over a big bottle of water, some kind of fried pastry that sticks to his fingers and the wax paper they’ve wrapped it in, gets sesame seeds all over the place. He shakes out his shirt. 

_You’ve done things_ Sol says, finally. He glances over to make certain Edward is listening, which he is, in his way, looking out and off, away. _I haven’t._

 _Sure you have_ Edward replies almost immediately. Too quickly, like he's arguing with the point. _You’ve done loads of things._

He snorts out a laugh. _I don’t mean that stuff. And besides, you’re one to talk._

Edward shrugs, moves closer to him so their thighs are touching. He pokes at the rock as if it were sand, as if it would take an imprint instead of being hard as stone. 

_It feels like it all happened a long time ago_ Edward says to the rock. _And sometimes it seems like it was someone else who did all those things._

Sol wonders still if he could run away. There’s boats right nearby. One of them could take him away from here. He has money, some, his debit card — though not his passport. 

And it would be awkward to leave his stuff behind only for Edward to have to bring it to him. Back home, the two of them meeting in some centrally-located neutral spot, where he could get back his favourite jeans, now with a small hole rubbed in the thigh, and the book he’d been reading, and his phone charger, and the electric toothbrush he’d got last Christmas which wasn’t a thing he’d thought to ask for, want, but now can’t go without. 

He’ll go back with Edward. Take a shower, change his clothes, pack his bag on the quiet, make certain he’s got his passport, the jeans, the electric toothbrush. Write a note and leave it in the kitchen. _I can’t do this I’m not this I never asked for you to love me._

In the morning; he wakes up early enough. 

It's hell for him, to be with Edward here and yet imagine him here, fuck, _anywhere_ , without Sol, with terrible gap-year hair, he’s seen the awful pictures, because even with that hair he knows he would have found Edward, aimed to bag Edward, copped off with Edward, but, the kicker to that is, never seen him again. Because he wouldn't do repeats, for a lot of reasons, the main one being he didn't believe, himself, that anyone would want more than just his dick. _Special offer, one time only, get it while it's hot, gentlemen._

Back then you hadn’t got apps to remind you what you’d done, with shiny badges and backlogs of messages. You simply went to a place and did things and had done with it. You didn’t get anyone’s number, go back to their flat, didn’t spend the night, see them the next morning when you woke, make smoothies with açaí and chlorophyll and bananas and pea protein the next morning, go for a run together, meet up with people you both know for brunch, drinks, private booth karaoke. 

He wants desperately to have known Edward then but by the same token, had he known him, he wouldn’t really have known how to love him, which is such an astonishingly stupid a thing to have in his mind that he wants to bash his head open against the rocks until he can stop thinking about it. 

He lets Edward take his hand and hold it, long enough that there’s noise from the pier and a boat pushes off, sounds a low horn like the honk of a strangled goose. 

_I haven’t_ Edward says. _I mean, yes, that’s maybe not entirely true. But it was a long time ago._

_Seven years?_ Sol says. He wishes he knew the right way to say this. Or rather he wishes he could keep the dumb sentiment to himself and yet have Edward figure it out, divine it like an oracle, without him having to say a single word of this broken feeling out loud. 

Edward shrugs. _You think it matters_ he says, like he’s trying to understand. 

_Doesn’t it?_

_I think_ Edward says, shading his eyes against the sun as it shimmers over the horizon, pink and gold against the water _maybe to you it does._

As red as he must be already, he feels himself go hot and flushed. _Maybe_ he admits. _Maybe more than I realized._

Edward rests his chin on Sol’s shoulder. _It isn't like this_ _with other people, you know. Wasn't. It's better with you._

The sun is only growing bigger, the sky streaked with orange and purple. _Did you have plans for tonight?_ Sol asks, suddenly worried he’s ruined something planned, and that makes his stomach seize up. 

_Only this_ Edward answers. _Although I was hoping to be sitting in a chair, preferably with a drink. Are you hungry?_

 _I should change_ Sol takes in his running shorts, the sesame seeds clinging to his shirt. _But sure._

 _Do you want to take one_ Edward asks as they pick their way along the rocks and back to the access road. Sol eyes the boats touting things like _dinner cruises_ and _sunset vistas_ and _live entertainment_ and _beer and wine included_. 

Sol eyes them up. _Have you?_

 _Ages ago_ Edward says. _Long time._

 _How was it?_ Sol asks. After university. When he had terrible hair and a bad bout of depression. _I would have loved you, Edward. At least, I hope I would have tried to._

Edward shrugs. 

_All right_ he says. _Silly. The music is always too loud to hear anyone you’re with._

Sol kicks at a bit of rubbish left on the rock. People really do trash the place down here. It has been nice, this. Edward knows already what will be worth their time, and will have done the research and made the bookings, and all Sol has to do is let himself be loved, despite it managing to be the most painful thing he’s ever experienced in his whole life to date. 

_Will it be terrible?_ Sol asks. Maybe Edward is telling the truth. Maybe, just maybe, Sol can will himself to believe in it; them, if such a thing is even possible. Maybe it's sincere, this holiday in the sun. 

_Awful_ Edward says, and his smile is worse, somehow, than the sun. _Should we?_

 _Which one?_ Sol asks, bewildered. Suddenly things are bright and loud. The sunset is immanent, spilling across their shoulders. Men are waving flyers in his face.

 _It doesn’t matter_ Edward says, leaving the choice up to him _just pick one._

**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry, they're totally in love, they're just fucking idiots. I'm on Tumblr [@pitcherplant](https://pitcherplant.tumblr.com/) sleeping in an ice ditch these days.


End file.
